


Golden Boy

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft is touch starved, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill.  Mycroft's first time, but it's just awful and it hurts so much, and his partner doesn’t even notice (or care) that Mycroft is in pain. Still, he tries to put on a brave face and pretend he doesn’t mind.  And, of course, pretending is something Mycroft is really good at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, the sex is rough and painful and there are some consent issues here.

Tonight’s the night.

Mycroft can feel the certainty thrumming in his chest, warm and trembling. He smiles across the table at Jeff. He takes a sip of wine, letting the tip of his tongue dart out to catch the drop of rich red left on his lips. It is a conscious, deliberate move. Everything is.

Jeff returns the smile. His eyes are blue and clear, his grin white and even and perfect. He’s devastatingly handsome and his eyes crinkle invitingly at the corners when he grins. Mycroft feels an actual swoop and flutter in his belly. It’s impossible, all of it, impossible that he should be sitting here in a restaurant with this gorgeous man. 

The Mycroft of ten years before, a chubby, spotty, painfully shy teenager, could not have ever aspired to this. Jeff was a golden boy, the sort who captained the rugby team and held court amid a throng of friends everywhere he went. The sort Mycroft could only watch from a distance, wistful and wanting.

But now, now things are different. Now Mycroft is _somebody_ , he is moving up in the world, he is charming and clever and witty. He says all the right things and knows all the right people. When he spotted Jeff at a society gathering last week, he had wanted immediately and these days, Mycroft Holmes gets what he wants.

Mycroft rests his hand on the table, wondering if he dares to brush his fingertips against Jeff’s wrist. He imagines how it will feel, the warmth of his skin. Jeff is toned and fit, an athlete, broad shoulders and a slim waist. Mycroft imagines taking his shirt off, running his hands over all that skin, feeling the play of muscles beneath the surface. 

Jeff laughs at something he has just said and Mycroft laughs with him, mirroring his wry chuckle perfectly. He tilts his body forward, dips his head, glances up at Jeff through his eyelashes. He watches as Jeff brings a bite to his mouth, watches the curl of his fingers around the fork and the bow of his lips as he opens his mouth. He wants those hands and those lips, can barely think past the anticipation.

How will it feel, Jeff’s broad, strong hands on him? Mycroft’s skin tingles and tightens, and he smoothes a hand down his own sleeve, soothing. He has waited twenty nine years, after all. He can wait a little longer. He can, he can, but oh, just the thought of it. Another person’s touch, the idea is consuming. Nobody touches him, nothing more than the fleeting polite pleasantries of a handshake at work, the casual, accidental brush in the hall, he’s not felt anything but his own hands for so long.

Mycroft says something--something clever, he’s sure, something interesting and funny that Jeff will enjoy, but he’s not paying attention to the actual words. That part is automatic, secondary. He watches Jeff’s mouth quirk into a soft, amused curve. Jeff will kiss him, he’s sure of it. He has made his intentions, his willingness, perfectly clear in a hundred subtle ways and Jeff has not missed all of them. 

He wonders if Jeff will kiss his neck. Mycroft’s neck is sensitive; he often trails his fingertips there, teasing, when he touches himself, but the idea of that soft mouth, of being kissed and licked and nibbled along the line of his throat, oh. Mycroft shifts in his seat and allows a little heat to show in his gaze. Jeff raises an eyebrow at him, playful and knowing. 

Mycroft has it all planned. He’ll be eager, but not _too_ eager. Confident, steady, he will radiate competent experience. He will give the impression that he does this sort of thing fairly often. Jeff is the sort of beautiful, charismatic man who probably lost his virginity in his early teens. He will not be impressed if he knows Mycroft made it nearly to thirty with his still intact.

He will begin by offering oral sex, Mycroft decides. He pictures it, Jeff’s hands threading through his hair, stroking him. Jeff quivering and gasping under his touch. He has read all the books on this, he knows the anatomy and the physical logistics. Jeff will be impressed with his skill and technique. He will make helpless, breathless sounds and Mycroft will be able to feel him shaking, struggling for control. He will take Jeff close to the edge, and then he will look up at him and lick his lips and say: _I want you to fuck me._

Mycroft rehearses it in his head. It’s not a phrase that comes easily; this is not the way he speaks. But it will appeal to Jeff. He imagines the words, he thinks of the way Jeff’s eyes will go dark and hooded with arousal, the eager way Jeff will roll him onto the bed. Perhaps there will be more kissing, down his spine, maybe Jeff’s hands running over him. He can’t predict this part exactly and the uncertainty is a thrilling flutter, all excitement and anticipation and a tiny edge of fear.

On the table, Jeff’s hand covers his for a moment, his thumb stroking along Mycroft’s palm. Mycroft goes still, his breath stuttering to a stop (but only for a second, imperceptible, quickly covered, an _experienced_ man would not react so strongly to a mere touch). He meets Jeff’s eyes, sees the unguarded want, and he shivers.

“You finished?” Jeff asks, nodding at his dinner.

Mycroft barely glances at the plate. He’s eaten some of it, tasted none of it. His stomach rolls and trembles and the food sits like a rock. “Yes,” he says. “Shall we?”

Jeff nods. His hand squeezes tighter for a moment, fingertips on Mycroft’s wrist. Mycroft angles just a little so Jeff can’t feel his pulse. That would surely give him away, hammering in his chest and rushing in his ears. “You want to go somewhere?” Jeff asks, laying meaning heavily in his voice.

Mycroft lifts his chin, draws his shoulders back. Confidence. He doesn’t have to feel it, he only has to show the right signs. “My place,” he says.

One corner of Jeff’s mouth draws into a grin. _Tonight,_ Mycroft thinks. Tonight, tonight, tonight.

*

They’re barely through the door of his flat when Jeff turns and kisses him, pinning him against the wall. Mycroft gasps and forgets to respond, forgets that he should kiss back, his head full of shock and want and confusion. Jeff’s mouth is warm, demanding, aggressive. He kisses hard, he uses his teeth, his tongue is suddenly in Mycroft’s mouth, wet and fast.

Mycroft has never been kissed but he’s seen it, he knows what a kiss looks like. It is a fairly simple thing, the press of mouths, a conversation of lips and tongues. Certainly within his ability to master, but he can’t seem to catch up now. Every time he tries to kiss back, tries a tentative swipe with his tongue, Jeff presses in harder. Mycroft’s knees are shaking, his back propped against the wall, Jeff’s hands planted to either side of him, holding him in place. There is a brief spark of panic (he’s trapped, he can’t speak, he can barely breathe) but he pushes it down. He is Mycroft Holmes and he can do this.

He gets a hand on Jeff’s jaw, relishing the warm scrape of stubble against his palm. He curls his fingers around the back of his neck, angles his head so he can get a breath. He makes a sound, an eager mumble, and Jeff bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to sting. Mycroft tilts his jaw up, exposing his neck, hopeful. Jeff’s hands are still against the wall but he wants to feel them, he wants Jeff to wrap his arms around him, to stroke his back and kiss his neck, to murmur against his skin. He wants that shivery trail of sensation along his throat, slow and teasing.

Jeff does not kiss his neck. He keeps worrying at Mycroft’s mouth, thrusting his tongue in, sloppy. His body is firm against Mycroft’s now, leaning into him. Mycroft isn’t hard, but he can feel that Jeff isn’t either, not fully, so that’s all right. 

Mycroft breaks away and turns his head to the side. He resists the urge to wipe his mouth. He slides to his knees before Jeff can catch his mouth again.

Jeff steps back enough to give him room, so Mycroft isn’t pinned quite so close to the wall. He grins down at Mycroft, his mouth wet and his hair mussed. He is still impossibly beautiful and Mycroft feels his enthusiasm returning. He knows what happens next, he has imagined this so many times. He knows just how it will go. 

He makes quick work of Jeff’s belt and fly, then leans in to nuzzle him through his boxers. He breathes in, overwhelmed by the scent; musk and salt sweat and something uniquely male. That nervous twist writhes in his belly again and he relentlessly clamps it down. He slips his fingers through the gap in the front of the boxers, and there, under his hand, the hot, damp texture of Jeff’s skin. He’s touching another man’s cock, he’s got his hand right on it, and he wants to pause for a moment to get his head around this idea but he can’t. Hesitation is a tell. _Confident_ , he reminds himself.

He pulls Jeff out, still only half-hard, and looks up. He licks his lips in a deliberate, studied move. Jeff nudges his hips forward. Mycroft opens his mouth and takes him fast, curling his tongue around the head, giving a careful pull with his lips. Jeff grunts and nudges forward again, and his hand comes to rest in Mycroft’s hair. Perfect. Exactly as he planned.

Jeff quickly grows hard in his mouth and Mycroft’s eyes widen at the pressure, the bitter tang, the way his jaw stretches to accommodate him. He pulls back slightly but he can’t go far; there is the wall, and Jeff’s hand, firm now, gripping him. He can feel the hard tile floor under his knees and the blunt, heavy pressure of Jeff on the back of his tongue and the wall against his shoulders. 

There is too much to categorize, to sort through, he can’t stay ahead of the constant stream of input. The smell and taste of Jeff, the sound of his breathing, steady but growing faster, rougher. The tug at his hair as Jeff tightens his hand. The tightening of his throat, involuntary gag reflex as Jeff pushes forward, deeper. The hollow lurch in his chest when he can’t get a breath, angling his head so he can breathe through his nose, tilting his jaw so his teeth are covered, curling his lips, he has to remember to move his tongue, to apply a rhythm, to suck and use his hands, he has to make this good. 

Jeff isn’t making much noise and Mycroft goes faster, trying to remember what he studied. If he could just lean back a moment and focus, he would only need a few seconds--but no. Jeff holds him in place (that has to be a good sign, right? That Jeff doesn’t want him to stop?) and its all he can do to keep breathing, to keep his mouth firm and slick, to quell the rising tremble in his belly as Jeff shoves into his throat.

He manages a stroke with his tongue, gets his hand curled around the base of Jeff’s cock, tries to suck each time Jeff pushes in. He swallows around Jeff and makes a small, choked off sound. His other hand is on Jeff’s thigh and he can feel the tension there, the quiver in the muscles. His jaw aches and his throat keeps trying to close, to reject the intrusion and his stomach roils uneasily. 

Jeff grunts and takes a ragged breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, take it, that’s good.”

The encouragement renews Mycroft’s determination. He curls his tongue more forcefully, rubs it over the frenulum with each stroke, swallows and ruthlessly suppresses his body’s attempts to gag. He’s not sure how long this has been going on but he thinks Jeff is getting close, growing even harder in his mouth, his thrusts getting faster. The hand on the back of his head is pulling him even closer but Mycroft resists. Any closer and he won’t be able to breathe.

He braces his hands on Jeff’s hips and pushes, but Jeff doesn’t stop. The sharp tang of pre-come coats his mouth now, saliva slipping down his chin, his throat aching with the rough treatment. Mycroft pushes harder and turns his head to the side, ducking away from Jeff’s hand. Jeff tries to grab him, to steer him back into place, but Mycroft presses his lips firmly closed. He breathes hard, his head spinning, gasping in relief at finally being able to inhale properly.

“Why’d you stop?” Jeff sounds petulant, irritated.

Mycroft looks up at him. He makes sure his face shows only eagerness, seduction. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, just as he’s rehearsed.

Jeff nods and smirks at him. “Figured you were the type,” he says. He steps back and Mycroft gets to his feet, then leads him into the bedroom.

He stands at the foot of the bed and turns, one hand hovering uncertainly over his tie. He’s still fully dressed, which is somehow surreal. He was just on his knees with another man’s cock in his mouth and he’s still impeccably turned out in his three piece suit. He’s not sure if he should undress himself, or if Jeff will undress him. He’s hoping for the latter; the feeling of Jeff’s hands stroking his skin as it’s uncovered, a slow exploration, kisses on his chest and shoulders, the warm weight of another body pressed close.

But Jeff is already methodically shucking his suit jacket and tie, his trousers still hanging open and loose around his hips. Mycroft follows his example, leaving his clothes in a haphazard pile on a chair. He keeps his head down and his body angled away. The room is dim (he left only a small bedside lamp on earlier, before he left the flat, in preparation) but he is still very aware of the differences between them. 

Jeff is toned and his skin is golden in the low light, healthy and sleek. His shoulders move and flex as he shrugs out of his shirt. Mycroft wants to step up behind him, to put his arms around Jeff’s waist, to rest his cheek against that firm, bare shoulder. But Jeff’s movements are hurried, impatient, and Mycroft can tell this kind of indulgence would not be welcome.

He keeps his focus on Jeff, doesn’t look down at himself. He knows perfectly well what he looks like. He can see the flaws every time he steps out of the shower and regards his reflection. Pale skin, still loose and soft around his middle where he used to be much rounder. A smattering of ginger chest hair, arms that show he spends a lot of time writing and little to none exercising. Small pink nipples, prominent collarbone, broad but bony shoulders. 

Mycroft drops his trousers and pants as well, toeing off his shoes. Jeff is doing the same, the curve of his arse firm and tempting. Mycroft distracts himself by imagining how it will be when they are both naked. Perhaps Jeff will hold him, will press them together head to toe. The idea of all that skin against him is decadent, thrilling. He would relish the warmth of it, the intimacy. Jeff is absurdly gorgeous, muscles playing in his abdomen as he turns, the line of his waist slim and tapered, and Mycroft wants the feel of it under his hands. 

Jeff does touch him then, his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, steering him toward the bed. Even that small contact is exciting, rough palms on his bare skin, he’s never been touched any place his clothes normally cover. He wishes Jeff would keep going, would sweep his fingers down his back, would rub and stroke until the anxious tension evaporates. 

They get on the bed and Mycroft rolls onto his belly, curving his back. He dares a small tug at Jeff’s arm, trying to pull the other man on top of him. He wants that weight, that firm strength settling over him, he wants to feel surrounded and warm and held. Jeff straddles him, a knee to either side of his hips, but he braces his body up on his arms. “You have supplies?” he asks.

“Yes, bedside table,” Mycroft says. He gestures, and feels the bed shift as Jeff leans over and rummages through the drawer. There are condoms and lubricant there (Mycroft had procured a new bottle of lube, and then carefully emptied about a third of it, giving the impression that it had been used for this purpose before). There is a rustle and the snap of the bottle opening, then the crinkle of the condom wrapper. Mycroft takes a deep breath and rolls his hips, angling his arse upward. He knows what comes next.

There will be Jeff’s fingers, slick with lube, opening him up. Maybe even Jeff’s mouth, although that is perhaps foolish to hope for (but he made sure he was very clean before their date anyway, ever hopeful). There may be kisses to his back while Jeff stretches him, a soothing stroke down his spine, warm murmurs of encouragement. Mycroft has touched himself like that before, has used his fingers a little, but he knows it will be different now. His arousal returns with a low simmer just at the thought of it.

Then, Jeff’s hands on his hips, pulling him upward, angling him. Mycroft goes willingly, growing a little harder where he is pressed against the mattress. Jeff’s fingers prod at the insides of his thighs, pushing them wider, and Mycroft spreads his legs. Jeff settles between them, his thighs warm and firm against Mycroft’s skin.

A flush races up Mycroft’s chest, burning to the tips of his ears; he’s exposed, held open, vulnerable. He can feel the heat of Jeff over him and he raises his shoulders a little. He wants the contact, he wants to feel Jeff’s chest against his back. His skin thrums with it, sings and tingles with the anticipation of touch. He feels half-starved with needing it, he’s gone without for so _long_.

Then there are Jeff’s hands on his arse, thumbs spreading him wider, and Mycroft tenses. He forces out a long, steady breath and makes himself relax. This is what happens, he knows how this works, this is all just as he planned. Mostly as he planned. Perhaps not everything has gone exactly as he wanted but isn’t the uncertainty part of the excitement?

Next, finally, pressure at his opening, slippery and warm and Mycroft bears down against--but no, that is not Jeff’s finger. That is bigger, blunter, smooth through the latex, slick with lube but surely Jeff isn’t planning on…

Mycroft gasps when Jeff pushes the head in with a sudden hard thrust. The burn is immediate and sharp, radiating up his spine, and Mycroft’s first instinct is to pull away from the pain but he has better control than that. Instead, he bears down again and breathes through it. His hands clench on the pillow and a whimper escapes between his teeth. 

“Yeah,” Jeff mutters, pushing in further. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft manages. His voice is rough, strained, but that’s all right. Jeff will hear what he wants to. 

Another push and he’s got to be at least halfway now, maybe more than halfway, there can’t be that much more. Jeff was big in his mouth but surely not this big, the hardest part was the initial breach and he’s past that now so if he can just breathe and relax his body will stretch and it will start to feel good. People do this all the time, they do it willingly, they enjoy it and he can take it. 

The burn doesn’t ease, just builds and stings and there is the sense of impossible fullness and some base part of him, some survival instinct skitters in panic and urges him to pull away. It just wants to escape the pain and it’s strong, this instinct, it’s demanding and strident but Mycroft is not weak. He does not give up easily. He doesn’t give up _ever._

A final push and then, mercifully, Jeff is fully seated, his hips up against Mycroft’s arse. “All right?” he asks, perfunctory.

Mycroft opens his mouth. He’s tempted, so tempted, to ask for a moment but the words spin out in front of him and he can see exactly how it would go--

_(“Slow down just a little.”_

_“Why? Something wrong?”_

_“No, it’s good, it’s fine, I just--”_

_“Because I thought you wanted this. You said you wanted it.”_

_“I did, I do, give me a few minutes to adjust and we can keep going.”_

_“You’ve done this before, right?”_

_“…yes. Of course.”_

_Disbelieving huff of laughter. “You’re kidding me. You’ve never done this?”_

_“I…”_

_“Seriously, what are you, thirty-something?”_

_“Twenty-nine.”_

_“Yeah, look, maybe this was a bad idea.”_

_“No, don’t go, I only need a minute, it hurts--”)_

No. No. They will not have that conversation. Mycroft will not allow it. So instead, he says, “Yes, it’s good, keep going.”

Jeff doesn’t ask twice. He pulls back, then thrusts in again, harder. Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut. If he can just make his body relax it will get easier, he knows it will get easier. All the books said so. Just relax and bear down and the muscle will stretch. But each thrust drives a new spike of pain into him and he can’t make himself stop tensing against it.

Mycroft hitches his hips a little higher, trying to ease the angle. If Jeff rubs across his prostate, maybe the pleasure will distract him. He knows it’s there, he knows it feels good, he’s done it himself enough times but Jeff is going so fast and all he can feel is the sharp ache and that scrabble of panic at the back of his mind. 

It’s fine though, it’s all right, he can do this. Jeff can’t last forever. There was the blow-job earlier, after all, he had seemed close then, and he is making pleased little grunts, his breathing loud and ragged. All Mycroft has to do is wait. He tries to focus on the points of contact between them, the curl of Jeff’s fingers against his hips and the brush of his thighs, the firm press of his belly against Mycroft’s arse. It’s all touch and he wants it, he’s wanted it for such a long time. 

A treacherous pressure rises in his chest and fills his throat, making it ache, and his eyes sting. Mycroft forces it back. He blocks out the rush of hurt every time Jeff thrusts in, and builds a picture in his mind. _Jeff on top of him, but closer, his arms around Mycroft’s chest, stroking idly over his skin. The sex is lazy, sweet, painless. Jeff kisses the back of his neck, whispers soft things to him. He holds Mycroft close, presses him into the bed, makes him feel anchored and secure. Each thrust is a silken glide, rubbing him just right, filling him. Jeff tells him he’s beautiful, he’s perfect, he feels so good._

“Yeah, come on,” Jeff says and Mycroft is jerked back to reality. “Take it, you want it. I can feel you shaking, you’re close, aren’t you?”

Mycroft has never been further from orgasm in his life. “Yes,” he says. He makes is voice go breathy and rough. He has seen porn before; he knows the right sounds. He deliberately tightens his pelvic floor, mimicking the fluttering contractions of orgasm. He moans and puts on a show. He jerks his hips, gritting his teeth at the sting. There will be no come on the blanket beneath him, but he doubts Jeff will notice.

Jeff grows impossibly harder inside him, and his thrusts lose their rhythm. He shoves in as deep as he can and groans in pleasure, fingers digging into Mycroft’s sides. Mycroft waits it out. Then, finally, Jeff sighs happily and pulls out. Mycroft turns immediately to his side, bringing his knees up. He catches a corner of the blanket and draws it across his hips, covering himself. Jeff lies beside him, not touching, drowsing peacefully. Mycroft appreciates the respite, the chance to school his expression into a similar state of sleepy satiation. He expected the pain to end when the sex did but he still aches, a deep, steady throb that twinges sharply with each small movement.

After a few minutes, he wonders if it would be acceptable to lean forward, to rest his head on Jeff’s shoulder. Perhaps Jeff would put an arm around him. Mycroft gauges the unsteady, quivering pressure in his chest, and decides against it. The slightest kindness would be his undoing.

Jeff twitches with a start, as if he’d been falling asleep and hadn’t meant to. He sits up, then turns to grin at Mycroft. “That was great,” he says. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. He smiles. The expression feels stretched thin, frayed at the edges, but Jeff doesn’t seem to notice the cracks.

Jeff rolls to his feet, utterly comfortable in his skin. He is still beautiful. The fine layer of sweat against his tanned skin makes him seem burnished in gold. Mycroft watches as he pulls his trousers back on, not bothering with his boxers. 

“You’re going?” Mycroft asks. His voice comes out perfectly neutral, casual.

“Yeah.” Jeff looks vaguely apologetic as he buttons his shirt. “Got work tomorrow.” He slings his jacket over his shoulders, slides his shoes on. His tie and boxers get balled up and shoved into a pocket. Mycroft is still naked, covered only with a corner of the blanket.

Jeff leans over him, kisses him quickly, a warm brush of lips. “Thanks, this was fun. I’ll let myself out. See you around, okay?”

“Sure,” Mycroft says. He can feel himself speak but it sounds like someone else. 

Jeff nods, flashes that dazzling smile at him, and then his steps are moving down the hall. There is the click of the door opening and closing, then nothing, silence.

Mycroft pulls the blanket higher, rolls until it covers him fully, all the way over his head. He’s shivering, a cold sweat coating his skin, and he clenches his teeth to keep quiet. He huddles there, and his chest hitches once, twice, but that’s all. That’s all he will allow.

Tomorrow, he will make all the right sounds about his date. He will be discrete and tasteful, but it will be clear that he shared an enjoyable, intimate evening with a very attractive man. He will be confident, and smooth, and composed.

No one will ever know.

*


	2. In Which Greg is Good To Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue/Sequel. Because I had to make it better and fortunately, Greg stepped up to the job.

“So then Sherlock went and told Donovan,” Greg says, gesturing with his wine glass. “You should’ve seen the look on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so much.”

Mycroft smothers a rather undignified giggle in his napkin. “Did she believe him?”

“Not at first,” Greg replies. “But he goes into all the evidence, you know how he is. The way Anderson tied his shoes and parted his hair or something. So she gets a face like she’s going to murder someone, and she drags Anderson off by the shirt collar and they have it out. In private, but Sherlock made sure to point out that based on the way Anderson was walking later, she almost certainly kneed him in the balls.”

“Charming,” Mycroft says. He shares a wry smile with Greg. “Sherlock relished that, of course.”

“Oh, of course. And, fair play, Anderson had it coming. Nobody cheats on Sally Donovan.”

“But wasn’t he already cheating on his wife with her?” Mycroft points out.

Greg spreads his hands. “You’d think she would have seen it coming.”

Mycroft nods, and lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “ _C’est la vie._ I am sorry that you had to deal with the fallout, though.”

“Eh, wasn’t so bad,” Greg says. “She was pretty mad at Sherlock too, but he made that face, like, ‘what did I do, I was only pointing out the blindingly obvious in an effort to save you the trouble later, I’m so very innocent.’ You know the one. And then John took him somewhere to explain it to him, and also got him out Donovan’s sight, which was a nice bonus. Thank god for John Watson.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees with a smile. He reaches across the table and covers Greg’s hand with his own, squeezing gently. “I had long feared that Sherlock would never be so fortunate as we have been.”

Greg ducks his head, but fails to hide a startled grin. “Yeah,” he says, his thumb rubbing over Mycroft’s wrist.

“Oh,” Mycroft says softly. “Someday, Greg, you will stop being surprised when I express how very dear you are to me.”

Greg colours slightly, pink beneath his tan. “Might take a while,” he says. “Three years and I still can’t believe my luck.”

“Happy anniversary,” Mycroft says, and he brings Greg’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over the knuckles.

“And many more to come,” Greg replies. He lifts his glass, and Mycroft taps his own wine glass gently against it. The restaurant is fairly busy around them, murmured conversations going on at a dozen tables, wait staff sweeping quickly between them, but there is something about being the focus of Mycroft’s singular attention that makes Greg feel as if he’s the only person in the room. 

At least, he feels that way until a few minutes later, when another couple is seated at a table to their left. Mycroft glances over to them, and goes very still. Greg can hear his breathing stutter, and his hand freezes, holding a forkful of pasta still hovering over his plate. Colour drains from his face. “Mycroft?” Greg asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft says. He gives Greg a thin and utterly unconvincing smile.

Greg cranes his neck, eyeing the couple. They look ordinary; the woman is middle aged, pretty in a tired sort of way, wearing a faded floral dress. The man is about the same age, with receding blond hair, broad shoulders, and the thick body of an athlete who has let himself go in recent years. He’s wearing a suit that is a little too tight, and his skin has the slight orange tint of a spray on tan. Greg frowns, then looks back at Mycroft. “No, seriously, what is it?”

The stunned, lost look has already disappeared from Mycroft’s face. His gaze is steady and calm, and his voice is perfectly neutral when he says, “It’s fine. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“No,” Greg says. “Don’t do that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No,” Greg repeats, sharply. “Don’t bother with the innocent act. That brick wall you just dropped down? You want to put that between you and everyone else, fine. Don’t you put it between us.”

Mycroft blinks, and his lips part slightly—on anyone else, it would be a look of slack-jawed surprise. He takes a deep breath, and then that icy calm evaporates and Greg can see something confused and terribly unhappy beneath it. “Apologies,” Mycroft says quietly. “I didn’t mean to… I can’t…” He casts a furtive glance at the other table. “Can we leave? Can we just go home?”

“Of course,” Greg says. He catches the waiter’s eye and motions for the check. Then he takes Mycroft’s hand across the table. Mycroft holds onto him tightly, like a lifeline, and they wait in silence until they can pay for the food and leave. 

In the car, Mycroft is quiet, leaning forward in his seat, staring blankly at the floor. Greg puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, and Mycroft tries to smile at him. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft says. “About dinner.”

Greg shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. Greg gives him a stern look, and Mycroft sighs. “No. I will be. It’s not important.”

“Of course it is,” Greg replies. He tugs at Mycroft, pulling him closer, and Mycroft comes eagerly. He presses against Greg’s side, wraps his arms around his waist, and rests his cheek on Greg’s shoulder. He lets out a long breath and settles, and Greg can feel the tension in his back easing. He doesn’t push for more and Mycroft seems content to leave it at that. He murmurs happily when Greg slides his fingers through his hair, stroking the soft fringe at the nape of his neck. Greg drops a kiss on his forehead and waits. Mycroft is a very private man, he knows that, and he knows better than to ask questions when Mycroft’s driver is right in the front seat. He can be patient a while longer.

*

When they get home, Mycroft strides into the flat ahead of him. “Tea?” he asks briskly, already rattling things in the kitchen. “I believe there is still some cake, we could have that since we missed dessert.”

Greg settles in a chair at the kitchen table. He props his chin in one hand and eyes Mycroft carefully. “My,” he says.

“Are you still hungry, though? It’s not that late, we could order something.” Mycroft stares blankly into the fridge, then shuts the door. He pokes through a cupboard. “Maybe coffee would be better with cake. Unless you’d rather avoid the caffeine at this time of night.”

“Mycroft,” Greg says, a little louder. “Sit down.”

“I will in a moment,” Mycroft says. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Perhaps some wine, oh, or we have this lovely port, that would be good.”

Greg catches him by the sleeve as he bustles by, and gives a sharp tug. Mycroft turns, startled, but not really. Greg can see right through that look. “Hey,” Greg says softly. “It’s just me. Come on.”

Mycroft nods and takes a slow breath. “Yes. Quite right. I’m sorry, Greg. Old habits.” He sinks into a chair and meets Greg’s eyes, and then carefully, deliberately, lets the mask go. Greg can see it slip away, can see the honest feeling beneath it. 

“There you are,” Greg says. “Better. Now will you tell me what that was all about?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “It is a long story, and I’m afraid, not a terribly interesting one. Rather commonplace, really.” He gives Greg a faint smile. “That gentleman at the restaurant, the one who sat near us?”

“I remember,” Greg says. “Big guy, blond hair, bad fake tan.”

Mycroft makes a small huff of laughter. “Yes. He used to have a much nicer tan, by the way. I knew him, years ago.”

“And?”

“This was long before I met you, you understand,” Mycroft says. “This gentleman—his name is Jeff, by the way—we used to date. Briefly.”

“All right,” Greg says. “My, I didn’t expect that you’d never dated anyone before me. Hell, you know I was married for a while before you came along. We both had lives, nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, nodding. “Of course, I realize that, it was just… he was the first man I… knew, in that sense.”

Greg raises an eyebrow. “Ah. You hadn’t seen men before him?”

“I hadn’t seen _anyone_ before him.”

“I see,” Greg says carefully. “Long time ago, was it?”

“Not that long,” Mycroft mutters. He laces his hands together on the table and frowns down at them. “He didn’t know.”

Greg tilts his head, trying to catch Mycroft’s eye, but the other man avoids his gaze. “What did he do?” Greg asks.

“Nothing like that,” Mycroft says quickly. “Nothing like what you’re thinking.”

“But something,” Greg insists. “Something that made you look like you were going to be sick when you saw him.” He can hear his voice rising and he grits his teeth, forcing it back. “Did he hurt you? He did, didn’t he? How long ago was this? We can still bring charges…”

“No,” Mycroft says sharply, cutting him off. “No. That’s not necessary.”

They’re sitting close, close enough that Greg can reach out and cup Mycroft’s jaw in one hand. Mycroft closes his eyes and leans into the touch, and Greg runs the ball of his thumb over Mycroft’s cheekbone. “Tell me,” Greg says softly.

“In hindsight, it’s all rather obvious,” Mycroft says. “Textbook, really. He thought I had experience and acted accordingly. I thought… well, I had an idea of how it would be, and the reality of the situation was quite different.”

“I remember how nervous you were, the first time we were together,” Greg says. “Because of him?”

“Partly, yes.” Mycroft takes his hand, weaves their fingers together. “Mostly because I was utterly besotted with you and terrified of making a fool of myself.”

“Two of us in that boat,” Greg replies. “This guy, Jeff, he wasn’t… he wasn’t good to you.”

“No,” Mycroft says. “He wasn’t. Not a crime, I’m afraid. Just a mistake.”

“I would have been good to you,” Greg says. 

Mycroft smiles at him, the first real smile Greg has seen since Jeff walked into the restaurant. “You are,” he says. “You always are.”

Greg stands, and uses their joined hands to pull Mycroft up. He steps close, leaning into Mycroft’s space, close enough to feel the warmth of the other man, to catch the subtle hint of his aftershave and the clean warm scent of his skin. He curls a hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck and pulls him in gently. Mycroft leans against him and sighs. He turns his face into the hollow of Greg’s neck and wraps his arms around his waist. They stand, swaying a little, quiet in their cozy and familiar kitchen. Greg pulls back enough to kiss him, sweet, lazy kisses, using just the top of his tongue to tease the sensitive inner curve of his lips. Then he tilts Mycroft’s head and presses more feathery kisses along his neck. Mycroft makes a small, choked sound and holds him tighter.

“All right?” Greg asks.

Mycroft nods. “I wish it had been you,” he says. His voice has gone hoarse and Greg kisses his temple, strokes his back, nuzzles the soft line of his hair until he can feel Mycroft relax against him. 

“Come on,” Greg says. “Come to bed. I want to be good to you.”

In their bedroom, Greg stops to kiss him again. He nibbles at Mycroft’s bottom lip, he presses light kisses to the corners of his mouth, he mouths the line of his jaw and laps at the tender spot just below his ear. He kisses until Mycroft has gone sleepy-eyed and pliant. He runs his lips lightly over the sensitive line of his throat, and Mycroft shivers and makes an eager murmur. Greg kisses lower until his collar gets in the way, and then he tugs at Mycroft’s tie, pulling it loose. Mycroft’s hands come up to help but Greg pushes them away. He undoes the tie and the first few buttons of the shirt, and then pushes Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders. 

Pleased with the new skin he’s uncovered, Greg finds the line of Mycroft’s collarbone and mouths it, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of his skin. Mycroft’s breathing catches when he sucks firmly at the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of Greg’s head. Greg busies his hands unfastening Mycroft’s waistcoat, moving by feel, his mouth still leaving a series of wet kisses from Mycroft’s shoulder to his ear. He knows what this does to Mycroft, how he loves having his neck kissed and teased, and Greg loves the way he squirms when it gets to be too much. The way he shivers and his eyes flutter shut and he pushes his hips eagerly against Greg’s. 

He undoes the rest of the shirt buttons, and then slides both shirt and waistcoat off, tossing them carelessly behind him. He runs his hands over Mycroft’s chest, down his arms and along his flanks, gathering up the feeling of his skin. Mycroft closes his eyes and swallows, then rests his forehead against Greg’s shoulder. Greg has the impression of something fragile, something unguarded and vulnerable in the line of his back, the slope of his shoulders. Mycroft gets like this sometimes, when he seems to soak up any touch with painful eagerness, as if he has gone without for far too long. Greg holds him close and waits, and eventually Mycroft lets out a long breath and presses a grateful kiss to his jaw.

Greg makes faster work of his belt and trousers, and Mycroft toes off his own shoes and socks. Then Greg walks him backward toward the bed, pushing until Mycroft sprawls on his back. Mycroft watches him with heavy-lidded eyes as Greg undresses. Soon he’s down to his pants, and he climbs onto the bed, resting his knees to either side of Mycroft. He braces himself up on his elbows and grins down at Mycroft, then kisses him, light and playful. Mycroft smiles against his mouth. He tugs at Greg’s shoulders, and Greg sinks down obligingly, letting his weight rest on the other man. Mycroft wriggles and gives a contented sigh. 

“Greg,” he murmurs, his breath a tickle in Greg’s ear. “I fear I will never get enough of you.”

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere,” Greg replies. He rolls his hips, and Mycroft draws in a quick breath. Greg laves at his neck, sucking in a series of tiny pink love bites, then angles up to nibble at his earlobe. Mycroft shifts under him, hard against his belly, and he threads his fingers in Greg’s hair.

Greg starts to slide down Mycroft’s body, kissing his chest, but Mycroft tugs him back up. “Just like this,” Mycroft says, wrapping his arms around Greg. “I want you close.”

“I’ll come back,” Greg promises. “But you need to be more naked.”

Mycroft laughs and lets him go. Greg kisses his belly, then tickles him, trailing his fingertips lightly over his ribs. Mycroft squirms and bats at him, and Greg runs his fingertips under the waistband of his pants. He keeps Mycroft guessing, kissing and sucking at the crease where his hip meets his belly, then dipping the tip of his tongue into his navel, making Mycroft twitch and giggle. He works Mycroft’s pants down slowly over his hips, then down his legs and off. Greg trails kisses up Mycroft’s thighs on the way back, mouthing at the tender skin, and Mycroft gasps.

Greg takes the time to linger, just a bit, at his hips. He loves the smooth curve of bone here, the skin pale and soft, hot under his lips. Mycroft always squirms so enticingly when he is licked there, as if he can’t decide which way to move, can’t sort out his body’s reactions to the touch. Greg mouths the faint grit of salt, nibbles gently, scrapes with his jaw and then soothes with the flat of his tongue. 

“Greg,” Mycroft says, breathless. “Please.”

He grins and slides his mouth down over Mycroft’s cock, an easy, practiced move. Mycroft moans and pushes up, one hand immediately in Greg’s hair. Greg moves with him and curls his tongue, then rubs the tip in small circles just below the head. He knows exactly what Mycroft likes, all his favorite things, and watching him come undone is delicious. 

It’s tempting to finish him this way, to feel him trembling on his tongue, to hear the way he moans and babbles nonsense when he comes. But no, Mycroft wanted him close and tonight, Greg wants to give him everything he asks for. So Greg lets him go with one more messy, slow kiss to the tip, and he moves back up the bed.

Mycroft reaches for him, takes Greg’s head in his hands, and kisses him, hungry, greedy for contact. He laps at Greg’s mouth, sucks at his tongue, makes an impatient whine against his lips. He reaches down and tugs Greg’s pants, and together they manage to push them down. They wind up dangling around Greg’s ankle and he kicks, trying to get rid of them without breaking the kiss.

Mycroft starts to laugh and Greg stares at him, then begins to chuckle himself. He rests his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Does the Prime Minister know you giggle like that?”

Mycroft laughs harder. “Certainly not,” he manages. “I do not giggle.”

Greg smirks and slips his hands under Mycroft’s arms, tickling him underneath. Mycroft _squeals_ and squirms and thrashes. “That sound, right there,” Greg says. “I need to record that and play it the next time you get all posh and proper on me.”

“Make it the ring tone on your phone,” Mycroft says. “I’ll call you repeatedly the next time you’re in a meeting at work.”

Greg snorts. “Call when I’m with Sherlock. He’ll go nuts.”

“Oh can we please not talk about my brother in bed?” Mycroft asks. He’s got one hand over his eyes, but Greg can see the wide grin on his face. “And for god’s sake, take your pants off.”

“Right.” Greg finally manages to kick them off, then turns and runs his knuckles gently over Mycroft’s cheek. “Now,” he says, “where were we?”

Mycroft looks up at him, and his eyes go soft. “You’re amazing,” he says. “Truly, astonishingly wonderful.”

Greg feels his face heat, and he smiles, ducking his head. “So you keep saying.”

“It’s true.” Mycroft kisses him, gently this time, sweetly indulgent. “For a long time, I didn’t think it could be like this. Fun and easy and… and _honest_. Thank you.”

Greg doesn’t have the right words to respond to that. There’s too much. So he kisses Mycroft instead, kisses him until they are both breathless, until Mycroft is making urgent little sounds in his throat and pushing up against Greg with his hips and Greg is pushing right back at him. Greg grabs the lube from the bedside table and uses it to slick both of them, and then he’s got them both wrapped in his hand and they’re sliding against each other and he has to put his head down on Mycroft’s shoulder and gasp for breath.

Mycroft’s hands are all over, sliding up and down his back, sifting through his hair, slipping between them so he can rub his fingers over both of them in maddening little circles. He cups Greg’s jaw and kisses him again, ragged now, just letting their faces rest together, sharing little nips. Greg slides his free hand under Mycroft’s back and squeezes him around the waist, holding him tighter, and Mycroft squeezes him right back.

They’re touching everywhere, legs tangled together, chest to chest so that Greg is lifted a little every time Mycroft draws a breath. Their faces brush--cheeks, noses, lips, the delicate touch of Mycroft’s eyelashes against his temple when he blinks. Greg finds the rhythm and thrusts, each stroke rubbing his cock up against Mycroft’s, both of them slipping together in the snug ring of his fingers, Mycroft’s skin velvety and slick against his.

Mycroft bites at his lip, sucks it into his mouth, groans into the hollow of Greg’s neck. He kisses all the skin he can reach. Greg scrapes his teeth along Mycroft’s neck and feels him tremble. He sucks on Mycroft’s earlobe and whispers broken words in his ear. 

“Oh,” Mycroft pants, “oh, oh, Greg, yes,” and he bites down on Greg’s shoulder, muffling a cry.

Greg feels him shake, feels his hips stuttering and the hot spurts of come over his hand, and he curls his toes and twists his hand just a little. Then there is Mycroft’s hand as well, lacing their fingers together, stroking his thumb over the head and Greg comes in long, deep bursts. He strokes them both until Mycroft is shivering and whimpering and he can no longer take the sensation, and then he lets himself melt against Mycroft.

Lazy fingertips trail up and down his back, leaving warmth as the sweat cools on his skin. Greg sighs and takes some of his weight on his elbows. Mycroft’s arm tightens around his waist. Greg shifts to the side, just enough so he’s not lying on top of the other man, and Mycroft makes a vague complaining mumble.

“M’too heavy,” Greg says sleepily.

“Like you there,” Mycroft retorts, and tugs at him.

“You won’t be able to breathe,” Greg says, but he moves anyway, sprawling on Mycroft’s chest, his head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. 

“I like to feel you,” Mycroft says. He yawns, and grabs the corner of the blanket, pulling it over both of them. Greg wriggles a little, getting comfortable. Mycroft’s hand keeps running idly over his back, long gentle sweeps up and down his spine. 

“Wish I could’ve been the first,” Greg says after a while.

Mycroft drops a kiss on top of his head. “I do, too. But I think it’s far more important that you’ll be the last.”

Greg smiles and catches Mycroft’s free hand. He brings their joined hands up and tucks them under his chin. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what matters.”

*


End file.
